My village neighbours. A tale

Chapter I

The past ! the past ! I'm saddened now, With memories of the past ; But yet that gloom upon my brow, I feel it will not last. For glorious hopes, and faith's bright beam, I do recall full well, Which brightened many a dying bed,! And softened death's sad knell. My first recollections, for I had dim per ceptions, before this day — dim like the first faint outlines of a gone-by dream ; but my first recollections, were of a quaint old building partly covered with ivy. Its windows, and doors were of a nondescript cha racter. Some of the former were gothic, and beautifully painted. B One of these elaborately painted windows lighted up my father's library, and was a never-failing source of amusement to me, for many years of my childhood. How often on a bright spring morning have I sat and watched the rich colours playing on the quaint marble table ; or forcing the deep shadows from their hiding places, piercing into the dim corners, or lighting up the dark rich carving of the old oak pannelling.

Many a grim head has glowed with fiery eyes, many a ruthless brow has shone with a golden lustre ! There were several paintings of our buried ancestors, grim, dark, and awe inspiring ! Old warriors, and ancient dames, knights of high renown, and youthful beauties of courtly fame, hung here, their deeds of love, or war, forgotten. How have I watched the rich colourings playing on their countenances, lighting them up with expressions undefinable, but which nevertheless, oft made my spirit quail within me. There was my mother's little work table, on which stood a vase of flowers, always the freshest and most lovely, and fragrant in our garden. This was my father's secret pleasure that the little table she always used, should stand in the same sunny nook, decorated in the same manner, as was her custom when her presence cheered and graced that dear old room.

Often have I seen him stand, and gaze upon this little table, and low quaint chair, and raise a drooping flower, or pluck away a faded leaf, and then with a deep quiver ing sigh, move away to his books or writing. I soon found that my little arms around his neck, and my warm kisses on his cheek, brought back the smile to his lip, and the calm serenity to his brow. My caresses were returned, and the softened voice called me his darling, his comfort, his treasure ! and I ran off to my play quite happy — that I had made dear papa smile. I do not remember my mother, but she must have been very amiable, that one like my father should revere her memory so deeply. The old people spoke of her with tender respect, the young with warm affection. And the good young lady of the par sonage became a familiar sound to my childish heart.

How the crimson tints, and gold and purple rays, played on that vase of flowers ! and changed with its flickering lights the whole aspect of the room. It was a strange old place that par sonage ! I do not think there were two windows or doors of the same architectural design, or two rooms of the same height or size. Stairs running here, aud there, few in number, but twining and twisting, rooms were entered by ascending two or three, others by descending, you never could be certain of the ins and the outs, at least visitors could not. But I ! I could have found each floor and room blind-folded. There had been frequent additions to the building, numerous armorial designs co vered the walls, not only of the house, but were let into those of the garden, which started up in all sorts of odd places, where you would never have supposed walls were intended to have been built.

Heads of a woe begone character, stared at the inquisitive stranger, from every nich, where it was possible to place one. These grim guardians of the scene, were the tyrants of my infancy. And certainly even in my childhood, I entertained a dark awe of them — from having heard an old woman — the gossip of the village — tell to my nurse, that a certain occupier of the parsonage, one not much respected by the villagers, had pillaged them, from the ruins of the neighbouring abbey; she also affirmed, that the pious monks, who had adorned the holy building with these offerings to its shrine, nightly surrounded the parsonage, bewailing over the desecration of their former abode. Often when the winter storm raged and wailed amongst the old trees, and their long boughs, swept by the wind, bent down waving with a moaning sound across the walls, and windows of my home.

I have shrunk ! and covered my head, trembling at some undefined thought of ghostly ven geance ! But never was there a pleasanter or more fruitful garden. Rambling nut walks, with borders of old-fashioned flowers, spreading their luxuriant tufts to the passing breeze. Sunny spots where the earliest, and sweetest violets were to be found, and where the wild-wood strawberries grew most luxu riantly. Shady nooks where dwelt the cheerful robin, who met you at every turn, with his bright inquisitive eye, or cheered you with his clear sweet song, from many a tangled bough. One spot was my delight ! And now when I glance from my cottage window, I see its ivied wall in the distance ; a sunny terrace ! Raised from the flower garden, by a bank so mossy green and soft in winter. In spring and summer so enamelled with graceful flowerets ; and in autumn decked by its varied tints, it seemed for ever fresh and charming.

A limped stream, one of the graceful beauties of merry English scenery, ran murmuring along, between this sunny terrace, and the flower garden. Two or three little rills rose beneath the bank, and trickling through the bright green moss, fell with a soft low sound into the rippling stream. At one end of the terrace grew a mighty mulberry tree, amongst the branches of which innumerable warblers filled the air with their wild melody, or dotted the green sward with their tiny forms, as they hopped about, seeking their food in quiet security. At the other end an aged medlar spread around its tangled branches, and a pleasant contrast was its white blossoms and its dark russet leaves in the summer sun-shine. Our garden was famous for my father's peaches, my bowers of white jessamine, and thickets of cabbage roses, of which I can assure you we were not a little proud.

At the western end rose a low straoforlino rock, its wild and broken sides wooded both by nature and art. The graceful ferns grew in great luxu riance, bending their bright green forms, o'er many a tuft of wild violets, harebells, primroses, wild hyacinth, stately foxgloves, and other children of the wild wood family. Up the sides of this precipitous rock, we wound our way, by steps cut out, but so well contrived, and so hidden by the wild hazel nut, and aspen quivering in the passing breeze, that you did not perceive that your path was other than the naturally broken sides of the cliff." From the summit burst on your view a varied scene ! Of rich surpassing loveliness. Low undulating hills with purple heath encased, wide spreading meads, rich with the dairy's pride, or harvest golden honours.

I have I think admired it most, when a fine October eve has lured me on. When the soft haze hung on that lovely valley, and the sun shone full on the sparkling waters of its lake ; when its golden rays lit up the wondrous beauties of its tinted woods, and the soft lowing of its numerous herds came musically up. Borne on the breeze the jocund ploughman's call rings merrily, and his cheerful whistle sounds musically too. Away ! to the Castle woods the cawing rooks are speeding fast, whilst their weary sentinels, winging in mazy rounds, utter their warning cries ; and as the evening closes o'er that calm valley rises the autumn b mist, spreading its pale grey mantle, fold by fold, till all is softly hid ! 'Twas here I sported when a careless child, with one how dearly loved ! My only brother !

Dear George ! the kindest, gentlest, frankest friend a sister ever had. He married very young, scarcely more than twenty ; but his regiment being suddenly ordered to India, my father could not withstand our united entreaties, that he and my favourite school-companion, to whom he was engaged, should be married. Fanny Graham was the orphan niece of the Misses Butler, who kept a boarding school in the village. The school, I think I may call it the County School. Schools were not so plentiful as I hear they are in the pre sent day. We always returned to the parsonage together on Saturdays — a happy time we passed for George always came to fetch us. Yes ! Saturday was a long, long day of glee! If fine,* off to the orchard, gardens, NEIGBOURS. village, everywhere. With busy feet we pattered to and fro, and the old walls rung forth their echoes to pleasant song, and childish laughter.

Where are those voices now ? They've vanished in their beauty, and the halls of their fathers know them no more ! Their shadows pass over the distant hills of the east ; and as soft clouds of the night, they flit amid the valleys of many waters. Sunday was a day of quiet, solemn plea sure. No gloom marked my father's devo tion ; no austerity of word or look, dulled that pretty church. How we used to enjoy that walk through the fields with our dear father — That village churchyard ! The graves so fresh and green ! Not one young foot would press the low green mounds ! His Rever ence and Miss Maude would be so vexed. Sufficient check for them. They really were good children — those little Moresdale urchins ! with their shining faces, smooth hair, and sparkling eyes, as they stood lining the short pathway, from the gate to the porch, all anxiously looking to catch a smile, or nod, or some such notice from his Reverence, on the fine Sundays when no chinking pattens, or dripping umbrella hurried them into church before we came.

I see now that big boy sliding behind the rest. No use ! his Reverence has stopped — his glance is on him ! Not one word is spoken, but Robert feels full well, that all is known. How could his Reverence know ? He's sure his mother never told of him ! and his honest eyes are raised brim full of tears to meet my father's look of keen reproach. 'Tis quite sufficient. They understand each other. My father nods and passes on, and the culprit follows, fully determined never to refuse to leave his play again when his poor sick mother has asked him to fetch home the brindled cow. The mystery is soon unravelled. My father had met dame Martin the evening before driving home her cow. He had stopped to speak to her, and enquired why Robert had not gone to the field to fetch the animal. She had made some excuse, as mothers will, to hide their children's faults.

But when Robert's guilty face and hasty action met my father's glance, the truth flashed on his mind, he understood the whole affair. Robert was certainly less selfish, and more attentive to his poor invalid mother from that eventful Sunday. My neat handed Rose, who waits so kindly and tenderly upon me now that I am en feebled by illness, is the youngest daughter of that said Robert Martin, and a treasure of a servant is my little dame Rose ; but they tell me she dances blithly enough around the maypole, or at harvest homes, or Christmas nights, and I hear, too, that ours is almost the only village from which the merry maypole is not banished. I like the good old times, and the happy grouping of the lads and lasses, the gay honest laughter, and the manly sports upon the village green. Well, I'm growing old ! but not my heart, that's bright and youthful still, and I am thankful for it.

Chapter II. Our Village Church

Aye ! Sweetly it sounds like music, Softly, harmonious, stealing — Weaving around the tender heart, With some of earth's best feeling. Our village church, Hark ! Sweetly the bells are ringing, Calmly, and gently pealing, No ! no ! 'tis memory's dream alone. Of their sweet music telling, Our Village Church. It is one of those simple, gray, time worn edifices you often meet with in Eng land's country solitudes, far from the turmoil of the city strife. It rises in a little sunnv nook of the valley ; the Castle woods seem to bend their sheltering boughs almost over its churchyard walls, so many dot its intervening fields. You catch a sight of Farmer Burton's farm and upland fields, and two or three thatched cottage roofs, and the latticed windows of widow James's cottage, down in the churchyard lane.

A pretty cottage that, overhung with jessamine and roses, and kept so neat and clean. I never passed without stopping to have a chat with the pleasant looking widow, and her pretty daughter Lizzie. I fancied the jessamine Lizzie gathered for me much sweeter than my own ; and the widow seemed so bright and cheerful as her eyes followed the light form of her child, who never seemed so happy, as when she was doing a kindness for any one. You might hear Lizzie's sweet voice singing, and wildly trilling like a gay lark long before you reached the cottage, and it ran^ pleasantly upon your ear, as you stood to gaze upon the quaint old monuments fretted by time. Lizzie was the pride and the boast of our village lads; but her sweet gay temper and obliging disposition, kept our lasses from being jealous of the village beauty.

But I must not wander from our church and its clean strange fashioned pews, its well swept aisles, and dark oak pulpit, with huge supported sounding-board. There was one ancient monument which had been brought from the Abbey ruins, long, long ago, when they were pillaged by order of our Henry the Eighth. It lay there the wonder of the young, the reverence of the old. In truth it was a splendid work of art that sculptured form. It had been wrought in the fair land of Italy. A lady of surpassing beauty, dressed in rich robes ; one hand held firmly clasped the emblem of her faith — the other tapered limb drooped by her side. But the wondrous art of the Italian sculptor had imparted to the form the look of sleeping life— and the folds too of the heavy dress —the pendant fringe — and yielding cushion on which the head reclined all added to the first impression, Lifelike !

She was, it was said, the lady of the founder of the Abbey, now in ruins ! Dear old church ! I love to gaze upon thee ; the first sight in the morning which greet's mine eye, is thy hoary ivied turret, my pretty bed-room commands a view of this spot I so much love, so sacred to my heart, for there rest the many I have loved, the dearest of them|all, my father ! In mature Use, that pretty church-yard had been one of my favourite resorts. How loved and venerated he was, a man of deep learning, single heart, and sweet simplicity. A Christian both in deeds and words. There, with my dear father leaning on my arm, 1 wandered pleasantly, listening to his rich, and ever varied conversation, whilst a merry prattler ran bounding around us, or gently sliding her little hand into mine, would walk demurely by my side, listening to our talk, until wearied with what she could not comprehend, she once more ran off in happy glee, cheering the lonely solitude with her ever tuneful laugh, or childish shout of joy, as some fresh flower, or beautiful pebble, met her eager glance, and convinced her she had disco vered a grand prize.

And this was all that was left to me of my beloved brother and his bright young wife. They had both died on the plains of India, leaving to my love their only child, dear, precious gift, sweet Florence. Bitter was the wintry night on which you came to us; but you soon brightened our hearth ; soon did you become the play ful darling of his old age ; my sweet little companion, my hope, my fond delight. But, alas ! the torment of our prim old gardener, who sighed and smiled as he saw his favourite flowers disappear beneath your too mischief loving hands, and the sturdy champion of every to be drowned kitten and puppy in the village, until at length the birth of these domestic animals were held in as much secresy as many a state question. The village of Moresdale ! my native village — the spot of all my joys and sor rows, this village so dear to me, was near the Devon coast, north or south it is not my intention to say, although I dare say, like all garrulous old women, I shall in some unguarded moment betray my secret.

Some people say it is best not to possess so dangerous a thing as a secret. But then the importance which it gives you to know you possess something so many are anxious to obtain ; why, you feel taller, and stouter, and more dignified ; do not despise a secret ; depend upon it, it is a very grand thing, at least in some persons' opinion . But I have left my dear village to write nonsense ; but, kind reader, remember I am only an old woman, placing before you the reminiscences of her youth, and of her opinions, some strange and vague, pray pardon, but read. Well, then, this home of my love, was a long, straggling affair, this Moresdale village, extending in length about three miles ; its breadth I do not exactly know. It included some well kept farms, and numerous white-walled, pretty, thatched cottages, well stocked gardens, with rough uneven palings, which in summer were hid from view, by clustering roses, blossom covered myrtles, and scented eglantines.

Most of these cottages commenced or ended one of those beautiful lanes, so pecu liar to the county of Devon. Lanes em bowered in trees, high banks, and luxuriant hedges. Rills for ever flowing from some unseen source, gliding along like silver threads away, amid the thick underwood, and wild waving flowers ! Then, again, appearing like some fairy stream, rippling and stealing along until it joins a wider, and a deeper. There the village children might be seen, most of them busily endeavouring, with brown and sturdy hands, to imprison some of the innumerable little minnows, which, hidden behind a friendly stone, or streamlet root, awaiting hut the disturbance of the water, to plunge by hundreds past their little enemies, and swim with startling rapi dity to another hiding-place. I write of the time before railways and telegraphic wires were the fashion.

When farmers drank their own cider, and eschewed wine, unless their wives' home-made dainties were set before them, on the grand days of christening, &c. ; when they rose with the sun and guided their own plough, and rode to market, and not to the hunting ground ! The days when their wives and daughters attended to the duties of their own dairies. When the pride of the poultry-yard was one of honest delight. The days when the squire was the greatest man in the village, and his reverence the term applied to the clergy. It was winter — cold, blighting, chilling winter, when our darling Florence came, without notice, to the old parsonage. My father had been confined to his room for some weeks, and had this evening ventured down to his pleasant library. We had not heard from George or his wife for more than a year, and his last letter had spoken of his anxiety on her account ; her delicate health, and his enforced absence from her, as his regiment was on active service ; he dwelt most fondly on the de scription of their darling child, and his in tention of sending her and her mother to England.

On this evening my father's spirits were unusually depressed, I wheeled his easy chair closer to the fire, parted his grey locks, and kissed his passive brow. He looked up and smiled. " Stir the fire, Maude, my darling, this is an unusually chilly evening." " More than chilly dear father," I returned as I raised a cheerful blaze, which quivered and danced in the ample grate. " I am afraid many of our poor neighbours will find this a trying winter." " I am afraid they will, my child." He held his long thin hands over the bright fire, then turning to me with his peculiarly placid smile, he continued — " Well, my little housekeeper, you must look over your stores, and give with a liberal hand." Then followed a little conversation on the wants and troubles of our neighbours, our dear Moresdale poor — whilst 1 was preparing our evening meal, as he always called our pleasant tea.

My father was very peculiar about his table services. The whitest of cloths, the most delicate china, and the clearest of glass, was his delight. I handed him his favourite beverage buttered his wafer-like toast, and performed all those little offices in which I knew he delighted to see me engaged. We commenced our tea — I gaily chatting to cheer his desponding mood — and his dear face brightened as I spoke, and his pleasant smile came on his lips and eye as he listened and entered into some comic scenes I was describing, and which I had witnessed during my morning's rambles amongst the cottagers. The wind had been gradually rising, it had left its threatening moans, and now burst into its wildest rage. The old trees trembled, and bent their aged branches to its fury. It tost their torn boughs against the windows, and hurled them whirling through the air, then rushing down the valley, died away faintly in the distance, only to return with greater violence, until the dashing torrent of rain seemed in some degree to lessen its power.

During one of the pauses in the storm, I thought I heard the sounds of carriage c wheels coming up the avenue. My father heard it also, he looked quickly up. " Maude, who can that possibly be? Do you hear the sound of a carriage, or is it my fancy?" " Certainly not fancy ! It has stopped " — for we lived so retired, that a carriage at this time in the evening was quite an event. My father rose to ring the bell, whilst I quickly stepped down the few stairs which led to the hall. The door w~as that instant opened. In came a tremendous rush of wind, seeming to sweep all before it — every light was extinguished ! The servants involun tarily drew back. A dark mass of some kind obscured the little light the struggling moon gave to the doorway. I instinctively advanced close to the moving mass. I heard a sweet childish Iaug-h !

It thrilled to my heart with the tenderest charm I had ever felt. Unconsciously I held out my arms — they closed on the form of a little child — the soft arms were around my neck — the little cold face was nestled close to mine, and a voice, the voice of gone-by days ! was whispering — " Aunt dear, Aunt Maude ; I am little Florence ! your own little Florence now! for papa, mamma, — "and the sweet loving voice was choked with sobs. That little sobbing voice had told me all. I felt — I knew — that I pressed to my bosom the orphan child of my beloved brother. My father was absolutely bewildered when I returned with our little Florence in my arms, clinging to my neck, trembling from the combined effects of cold and excitement, I placed her in his arms. " Grand-papa," sobbed the sweet childish voice.

Ah ! what a cry was that ! A cry of anguish from my poor father. Her black dress had caught his eye, and he felt that his beloved and only son, had gone home before him. Yes, dear father, you and George met no more on earth ; but you are now to gether in heaven. Thus came my Florence to the home of her fathers youth. In a few minutes she raised her head from my father's breast, and looked wistfully towards the open door. " What is it my darling?" I asked. " Oh, Aunt Maude, Captain Benson, he has been so kind." I instantly understood her, and hastened from the room. I found him in the dining room gazing at a likeness of dear George. I knew him by name, as a tried and dear friend of my brother's. He was distressed and surprised that we were ignorant of their deaths. Evidently the letters which he had written to apprize us of the sad event, had been lost.

My dear brother had fallen in battle, and Fanny had survived him only a few weeks, and her last request was that her precious child might be sent to the old parsonage. Captain Benson, who was coming to England with his family, kindly took charge of his friend's orphan child, and with true friendship, he had left his own family as soon as he had settled them in a house, to see dear Florence safe under the roof of her grandfather. We were mutually pleased to become per sonally acquainted, and he and his family passed some pleasant weeks with us during the ensuing summer, and I heard from Mrs. Benson many interesting accounts of my dear departed friends. I took Florence on the morrow to see her great aunts, who were deeply afflicted at the news of our mutual loss, and welcomed our darling as a gift from heaven.

Ah ! my Florence, may you be reared to return to that God who gave thy spirit forth on its earthly trial — without His grace I cannot rear thee, sweet one — to tread this vale of tears, but I will pray to be supported and led in my path of duty. These were my thoughts as I gazed on thee, my be loved one, that first night so dear to memory. I often picture that evening in my thought. I see my Florence as she was at six years old leaning against the arm of her grandfather's chair : — she reminded me most fondly of her mother. The same long silken ringlets of golden hair that Titian loved to paint, just waving sufficiently to curl in massive locks. The same high white forehead, bright blue eyes, and tender glances. But when she smiled, my brother was before me ! That charming, winning smile, which at once claimed your confidence ; the same firm rounded chin, full small mouth, and those peculiar teeth, white, square, and beautifully set.

She was indeed a treasure ! A treasure of light, love, and mirth ! Sweet Florence, how I delioht to recall that wintry evening, when you came like Spring's first lovely rose to dwell amongst us. That picture is before me ! The look of tender interest upon my father's countenance — as he supplied your wants. The trusting, loving expression of my Florence as she raised her eyes to his, the deep manly voice of Captain Benson, softening as he spoke of her dear parents, the subdued light which fell from the sus pended lamp, and the brighter glow which at intervals arose from the cheerful fire. Many years have passed, and I am alone, yet not so, but I must not anticipate, but relate the events of my life as they occurred. But still 1 am old Aunt Maude to many.

CHAPTER 111.

" There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and bower ; On every herb on which you tread Are written word3 which rightly read, Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, To hope, to holiness, and God." The spring after my Florence came to the old parsonage was one of the most lovely I ever remember, and we prepared on the morning of the first of May quite early, to proceed to her great aunt's at the Manor House to join in sports which always welcomed in that spring month at the Boarding School. But boarding schools are not what they were when I was a girl. Then it was a very different kind of affair, to what I am told it is at present. Then, comfortless rooms, and narrow backless forms were the fashion. To obey your parents the grand moral law. To make a shirt for your father, or supply half-a-dozen brothers with such like gar ments was deemed a most befitting accomplishment.

Now, but every one can tell how such establishments are conducted at the present advanced age. How daintily the young ladies are fed — how softly and cosily they sleep — what com fortable chairs and warm carpets are supplied to them. What an astounding amount of learning is carried on ! I am told they really attend lectures like voung men at college, and that the schools for young ladies are termed colleges too ! I certainly did go once when I was in London last year, and a pretty sight it was to see about a hundred young girls sitting around the tables, with paper and pencils 2 c before them ; but my poor old head is so stupid that I cannot remember the subject, 'twas I know one of the ologies, but the professor — I remember well that was what he was termed — spoke so fast, and wrote so much on a black board behind him, that I was fairly bewildered.